


Foresight Is 20/20

by thepetulantpen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Prophetic Dreams, he tries his best anyway, i might as well tag Destiny as a character at this point, mention of canon ger/yen but it's not important, not very graphic but it's there, sort of? if you count having powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25252954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen
Summary: The night before his performance in Posada, Jaskier dreams of Geralt. He sees the white hair and the duel swords, hears his grunts and swears, and feels the punch to the gut, sensation lingering for minutes while he lies awake in bed.It only occurs to him afterward that he had the whole damn day to think of a way to introduce himself and he still didn’t come up with a better opening line than “bread in his pants”.(In which Jaskier has prophetic dreams and Geralt is a little slow on the uptake.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 65
Kudos: 768





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting this piece edited and posted- the idea has been sitting in my ideas folder for months, and the rough draft has been haunting me for weeks. I should be able to get these chapters out daily, unless I get hung up on editing. 
> 
> I should warn that I've only seen the show (and read a lot of fanfiction) so any witcher lore wouldn't be super accurate. The first few chapters will focus on the events of the show, but after that I take significant liberties.

The night before his performance in Posada, Jaskier dreams of Geralt. He sees the white hair and the duel swords, hears his grunts and swears, and feels the punch to the gut, sensation lingering for minutes while he lies awake in bed.

It’s been years since he’s had dreams of anything more important than a thunderstorm- with the exception of those unpleasant, vague pieces of faraway violence he saw as a child- so the thought of encountering something as interesting as a witcher is enough to put him in a good mood for the whole day. He’s so busy buzzing with anticipation for this shiny, new person Destiny has dropped in his lap that he doesn’t pause to think about the ramifications of a witcher in his life.

It only occurs to him afterward that he had the whole damn day to think of a way to introduce himself and he still didn’t come up with a better opening line than “bread in his pants”. Worse is the expectation of the gut punch and his futile, though minimal, efforts to avoid it. This power, he thinks, is wasted on someone like him, who can’t be bothered to think more than a sentence ahead, if that.

It’s also, to be fair to himself, largely _useless_. What good are prophetic dreams if they don’t warn him he’s going to be kidnapped by the king of the elves?

Well, he’s not sure he’d ever want to be a proper seer, anyhow. He’d rather just be—

“Your humble bard!” Jaskier jogs to catch up with Geralt, who’s regained his lead after his brief, introspective break, “You’re stuck with me now, you realize? We’re meant to be- destined, in fact.”

His new witcher hums, and Jaskier considers the viability of a song consisting of an amalgamation of all those little noises. The hums seem unique, somehow, and he senses there’s going to be a learning curve, but Jaskier has never been one to back down from a challenge.

“She tell you all that?”

Jaskier blinks, trying to remember what they were talking about. “Destiny? Oh, yes, we’re old pen pals.”

Geralt allows a short, near silent snort and Jaskier makes a note to add a tally to the “Geralt’s Laughs” chart he’s sketched in his journal, to keep track of their progress as friends. It’s really funnier to Jaskier- Geralt doesn’t realize just how serious he is.

Or maybe he does. Maybe witchers can smell that sort of thing.

He jots that down, as another rhetorical question to bombard Geralt with over a campfire.

…

The dreams get worse the longer he travels with Geralt.

To start, they’ve become constant. No longer a few scattered occasions over a month, but every night, every time he sleeps. They even come to him in naps, sometimes, and are all the more terrifying for how vivid they are in his hazy, half-awake state.

Of course, the frequency isn’t the problem so much as the content. They are all about Geralt, which is not a problem in the slightest, but they focus on Geralt’s injuries, which are a significant problem. Horrible wounds at the hands of monsters that he has the pleasure of seeing up close, all the sharp teeth and claws with chunks of flesh skewered on them.

He supposes this is Destiny’s way of telling him that by tangling his future with a witcher’s, he is destined for violence and gore, but he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. Some dim sense of self-preservation drove him to split with Geralt early on a few road trips, hoping to avoid the dreams altogether, but that only got him nights of nightmares about battles being fought just out of his reach. The thought of not being there is worse, even if he’s not much help when he is present.

So, he gets used to the blood relatively quickly.

It’s not instantaneous- it still takes a good few weeks of squeamishness before he starts to realize he could probably help, should probably do something with this power.

Unfortunately, he knows very little about how the dreams actually work, only the conclusions he was able to draw from experimenting as a child. Reacting to the dreams always had a way of twisting them and making them sort of… self-fulfilling. If he studied for the test questions he saw in a dream, he’d find that the test did have those questions, but that they were the slim minority, making him wholly unprepared for the rest and earning him the same grade he’d foreseen.

Granted, the problem with Geralt is far less mundane than anything he’s tested thus far, but he assumes it follows the same principle. He figures Destiny’s little gift has him factored in, making his choices ultimately meaningless, unable to affect any change.

No change, though there’s nothing preventing him from preparing for what he’s predicted. He forms a system; every time he dreams of blood and pain, he makes sure he has bandages waiting for Geralt. Every time he dreams of angry mobs and broken contracts, he preemptively picks up the slack in performances, bringing in enough extra coin to get them to their next stop.

It’d be a brilliant plan, if it weren’t for Geralt’s skills of observation.

“How’d you know I’d need healing?”

The witcher stares pensively at the bandages Jaskier has neatly cut and folded- nearly perfect size for the gash on his leg- as if there’s some way they could be a trap. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so precise, but Geralt could do with some prioritizing, given that his blood is collecting in a puddle on the floor.

Jaskier gives him a winning smile, just this side of dopey. “Had a bad feeling, is all. Monster sounded like it’d be big.”

Geralt doesn’t look convinced but he allows Jaskier to help him with the bandages, especially the more difficult to reach cut on his shoulder. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice the extra spools of thread (the perfect color) Jaskier stored in his saddlebag, in anticipation of the damage to his shirt.

That would’ve been too suspicious- even for Geralt’s tendency to ignore what he doesn’t understand.

…

Jaskier’s excuse about bad feelings- which, honestly, isn’t a _lie_ \- gets worn out through the months. He can see Geralt grow annoyed hearing it again and again, but he never pushes.

Jaskier isn’t sure how much he really knows, or suspects, but he can’t think of any way Geralt could guess he’s having prophetic dreams, of all things. Maybe it’s just something he prefers not to talk about- one of many things.

Nonetheless, his recent successes have made him daring. He wants to be more useful, to really make a difference.

His song journal takes on new purpose as a catalogue of his dreams, detailing every second of the fights he gets a preview of. Memories of the dreams fade quickly, so he makes it his priority to furiously scribble down anything important the moment he wakes up, sometimes forgoing breakfast for long accounts.

A few times, Geralt looks like he wants to ask, but has stopped himself every time, either from some stubborn commitment to stoicism or a genuine reluctance to hear Jaskier’s answer.

Regardless, Jaskier tries his best to cover, “I compose even in my dreams, Geralt, and I have but a few minutes to catch up on hours! Comparatively, there’s plenty more time for trivial things like breakfast.”

“Hm,” Geralt tilts his head in that decidedly bastardous way of his, “Then I suppose you’d be alright with us skipping the tavern altogether next time?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and hopes he doesn’t look too relieved to see the moment pass. He’s busy, after all, going over the fight in his head. If he could find the exact right moment to draw away the strike—

A warning call becomes a distraction. A distraction becomes an interference. Assistance becomes a mistake.

It all has Jaskier huffing in frustration after hunts, stitching Geralt up with more force than necessary. Geralt tells him more often than not to stay back during hunts and gets gradually more suspicious of his foul moods, but Jaskier can’t bring himself to care.

It’s all unfair, and he knows it’s childish to say, but it’s bullshit that he’s made to bear witness to the inevitable and not be allowed to touch, or help, or do anything. He’s not the type to pray or send up offerings so he settles for glaring at the sky when Geralt isn’t looking, though he doubts it’s a good idea to antagonize Destiny.

When he trips on a rock and Geralt reminds him to keep his eyes on the road, he decides he needs to take a different approach.

It’s like a lyric, he reasons. You can’t force a rhyme to stick or fit in every ingenious turn of phrase- sometimes, a sentence needs to be rearranged and your best metaphors have to be cut.

And, just like a song, the first step will be a bit of risk. A leap of faith, if you will, with the hope that Geralt’s obliviousness will be his net.

“Keep up, bard. More time for composing at the next tavern.”

Jaskier runs to catch up and he doesn’t need a dream to tell him that he’ll sore by tomorrow.

…

For the fourth time in the last five minutes, Jaskier clears his throat. The increase in volume manages to tear Geralt’s attention away from his ale- you’d think it was high quality with how he stares at it, or the way he glares at the interruption.

“I, uh, happened to hear from one of the villagers that they found an extra set of tracks on the path.” Jaskier fidgets with his journal, folding a corner of the page, and stares out the dingy window. “Sounds like an extra griffin.”

At least, he hopes it does. He doesn’t claim to be an expert tracker- all he can rely on is his affinity for lying.

He’s always been a pretty good liar- it’s part of the job- but there are complications here. First, lying to Geralt is an entirely different matter than lying to anyone else- both on account of their friendship, and Geralt’s ambiguous super senses. Second, he’s not _really_ lying- there _is_ an extra griffin. 

Somehow, the inch of truth makes it all the harder to spin. It makes Jaskier nervous, which he’s sure translates to _something_ in Geralt’s senses- he can probably smell his sweat or hear his heartbeat or read his thoughts.

Geralt’s eyes narrow and he puts down the ale, which is a bad sign.

A cover, then. And quickly.

“I’m worried about you, you know?” Jaskier reigns himself in just enough to keep from batting his eyelashes, but does lean in, closer than he normally gets. “Two griffins seem excessively dangerous, even for a witcher. If you need backup—“

“If I need backup, I won’t call you.”

“I resent that.” He points a finger at Geralt, like scolding a cat, and is met with an unimpressed stare. “I just meant you should consider packing some… extra witcher-y stuff.”

Geralt grunts his assent and turns back to his ale- missing Jaskier’s sigh of relief. When he leaves Jaskier in their room for the day, Jaskier notices his potion bag is bulkier than usual and both swords are on his back. He’s wearing the full studded leather getup, too.

Jaskier lays back in bed and counts to thirty. It’s not necessary- Geralt never forgets anything, and never comes back to the room once he’s left- but Jaskier does it anyway, as an excuse to calm himself.

Then, he springs into action. There are supplies to gather; he has to have enough bandages to patch up the wound he saw in his dream, a nasty one across Geralt’s chest. It’d be helpful to have the stuff they’ll need to repair his armor, as well- though, it might be overstepping the boundaries of average human prediction.

Then again, Geralt hasn’t said anything yet, so Jaskier is inclined to believe he either hasn’t noticed or isn’t going to make a thing of it.

Tonight is going to be tough, but he hopes not as tough as his dreams led him to believe. Maybe correcting the contract will prevent some of the injuries Jaskier hasn’t foreseen, the injuries that always surprise him when Geralt comes back bloody and bruised.

Besides, there’s no way over-preparing can make things _worse_ than his dreams- he hopes not, anyway.

Geralt comes back to the room late, but Jaskier is still up, waiting for him. He grumbles briefly about Jaskier being right while he wrestles off his armor and doesn’t give Jaskier’s preparations a second glance, used to his help by now.

Jaskier bites back a grin (which, he realizes, would seem like a wildly inappropriate response) when he finds _only_ the slash he saw in his dream. He _does_ smile when Geralt grudgingly admits that one of his extra potions kept the fight from going south once the second griffin showed up.

He falls asleep after Geralt, too excited about his victory to sleep and turn his attention to the next day.

The lack of details in his dreams start feeling less frustrating and more like an opportunity- he thinks of anything he doesn’t bear explicit witness to as fair game. Blanks just begging to be filled with his own creative interpretation. 

He’ll protect Geralt with everything he has. Even if he can’t slay monsters or use magic, they could make an exceptional duo.

Geralt starts to snore and Jaskier sinks into a new dream, a new day.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier’s nightmares haven’t woken him up screaming since he was a child.

Then, he was unused to them. He didn’t understand what he was seeing, or why they seemed so _real_. He didn’t know that they weren’t just dreams, not like his mother would reassure him.

Now, he considers himself better, heartier. Equipped to not only deal with the dreams, but use them.

It doesn’t change his tolerance to watching people die, hearing them scream, and knowing he can’t do anything. 

_The sound of crashing waves fills his ears, drowning out the shouts of the woman he sees. Everything around her is blurred, leaving only the vaguely familiar face in focus. She’s crying as the wind blows through her fair hair, tangling and falling in her face._

_When she hits the water, he feels it. The icy cold of it sinks into his nerves, down to his bones, and he can’t breathe past the water rushing into his throat, filling his lungs—_

Jaskier shoots upright, wrestling with the blankets in a panic as he sits up, finally breaching the ocean’s surface of his dreams. At the very least, he manages to choke back most of his scream, but the motion wakes Geralt, who sits up abruptly- wideawake at the first sign of trouble.

It’s odd to see Geralt startle, turning towards the door and trying to find a threat. Jaskier feels bad for upsetting Geralt’s sleep- he’s been struggling since Cintra, and he rarely does more than meditate, these days.

 _Cintra_ strikes a chord and Jaskier feels the waves of his dream rise back over his mind, almost vengeful for being interrupted and not allowed to properly end. Beneath his hands he feels at once the scratchy cotton of the bed and the freezing waters of Skellige.

He isn’t quite awake yet, the dream still firmly taking hold of his mind when he says, “The time of axe and sword is nigh.” It’s a whisper, hoarse and strange. Too deep to be his voice, too foreign to be his thoughts. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt is staring, golden eyes sharp and cutting through the dark. “What’s wrong?”

“We need- we have to go to-“ Jaskier shakes his head, clamping down on the words. Images press, bright and insistent, against his eyelids, but he takes a shaky breath and wills them away. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

_A child. A child. A child._

Jaskier’s stomach curls with dread. _Inevitable_. 

It wasn’t his hands who pushed her- who _will_ push her- but it feels like his fault, feels like he’s the stupid bystander that could’ve done something, but won’t. He’ll only ever make things worse.

It’ll be his fault, it’ll all be-

It’ll be just like Cintra, just like knowing that he would invite Geralt, that he would _have to_ because he was being threatened by lords and Calanthe’s court was the best opportunity of his life. Not knowing, exactly, what the words of his dream meant, that he would be haunted by visions of Geralt’s sleepless nights and a child destined for him, growing up far away. Alone, now- her mother drowning, over the sea where Jaskier cannot help her.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s hand finds Jaskier’s arm but Jaskier can’t look at him, not now.

“Bad dream.” His voice cracks and he grits his teeth, forcing himself to put a little more energy into it. “Go back to sleep.”

Geralt doesn’t look convinced but, after a moment of contemplation, he doesn’t argue. Just nods and sits back, turning onto his side. 

The one time Jaskier wishes he would ask, the _one time_ Jaskier wishes they would talk about this-

It wasn’t meant to be. He’ll probably have to wait for another damn dream to foretell it.

He turns onto his side, away from Geralt. Curls up, but doesn’t sleep. 

…

After an extended time apart, his dreams warn him of seeing Geralt again. They do not, however, warn him of the countess’ departure, so he takes Geralt’s appearance as a consolation prize. He’s even excited about it, nearly overdoes his fake surprise at the sight of him. 

That’s probably why it all goes spectacularly wrong, because Destiny has it out for him specifically, and won’t miss out on a chance to fuck with him.

The fillingless pie comment hurts more when he’s not expecting it. Even if his dreams hadn’t been extraordinarily vague about this part of his day, he might not have believed that _this_ was the reception he’d get from a friend he hasn’t seen in months, having split after his last nightmare, and Geralt’s last night of true sleep.

But that’s Geralt for you- not as predictable as Destiny likes to believe. Sometimes, Jaskier swears Geralt does things that couldn’t have been planned in Destiny’s grand scheme, but other times, Geralt seems as blind to Destiny’s traps as anyone else- that is, anyone but Jaskier, who isn’t blind, but hapless, in this case.

Hapless, and emotional. He goes through all the motions of the fragments he saw in his dream- annoying Geralt, smashing the vessel- ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. In the dream, this conversation had been interposed with longer visions of Cintra and a few places he didn’t recognize, but now he’s caught up in the flow of the anger and disappointment in real time. Visions without context matter less to him when the consequences seem faded and unimportant- _inevitable_ \- anyway.

Until the Djinn goes for the jugular and the sore throat he woke up with makes a cruel, ironic sort of sense.

Out of all the ridiculous turns his life has taken, Jaskier can’t believe he’s slumped behind Geralt on Roach, riding towards what will hopefully not be his pathetic (and, though he’s loathe to admit it, somewhat _poetic_ ) end, while there are battles being fought across the Continent, and a young princess studying languages with a sorcerer.

There’s less and less mental space available for cynical assessment of his place in the world as his throat constricts and the pain spreads to his chest, curling a clawed hand around his heart. The next hour passes in a blur of half-familiar sights- Chireadan is a surprise, but the naked mayor isn’t (granted, he’d assumed the context would be wildly different when he dreamed it). Apple juice is just one of the many fun details his dream hadn’t bothered to include, that and the _orgy_ in the mayor’s mansion.

The rest, as they say, is history- by which he means, he doesn’t remember anything else. Somewhere between one tit and another, he passes out, hoping that he’ll keep breathing long enough to properly _investigate_ later.

In the interim, Jaskier has what he assumes are _normal_ dreams; if only because they are so absurd and disconnected that they cannot possibly be prophetic. Partway through a hallucination of Geralt growing wings and singing, Jaskier realizes that he’s never properly experienced an average dream, just heard about them. How do people put up with these?

He’d thought it’d be soothing to watch a reel of nonsense and not have to isolate the important parts- but it’s stressful, as he instinctively tries to make sense of the images his subconscious spins and spits out at random. He’s not sure he could handle this regularly, which is a spectacular revelation- and one that inspires a number of questions.

 _When did I get_ used _to prophecies? When did I start to_ depend _on them?_

Which, of course, is when he’s pulled back to consciousness, on a sorceress’ bed.

The first time he sees Yennefer, he thinks, _I remember her_. Given that he’s woken up on her bed, he guesses she’s a half-remembered lover, but the amphora tells a different story and the _eyes_ \- they’re undeniable. 

Violet, bright. Devilish and deadly, but sharper than he remembers, through the haze of long-forgotten dreams. 

Not his dream from last night, but an old dream, very old. A recurring vision he hasn’t had since he was a child, of the woman with violet eyes and barely restrained rage. He remembers watching her run from an assassin, remembers doodling portals on his schoolwork. Now, he’s found her and-

He’s got a knife in a very unfortunate place and he may have escaped death for nothing, at this rate. Destiny will have a few questions to answer when he comes pounding at her door after he’s passed from this world. 

Speaking of doors- one is left unguarded when the witch becomes distracted with her… magic thing.

It feels like freedom, but it leads him outside into daylight, the first day in his life that he hasn’t seen even a second of in advance. It’s not as nice as he imagined.

The building collapsing is a particularly nasty surprise, but he might not have been warned of it anyway, knowing his dreams. And, with his luck, he’ll see plenty of scenes similar to those from the window in following dreams- though, not the pleasant kind he’d normally associate with that… activity.

If he’s learned one skill from all of this, and it’s not the art of analyzing prophecy. It’s sensing when things are about to go sideways, seeing the cracks. It’s knowing when Geralt is going to push him away. It’s knowing when things are going to change.

And yet, it’s his nature to stick around, to see it to its dying breath.

He waits for Geralt at the inn and, for once, he’s not sure he’s coming back.

…

The dreams don’t really change in the years leading up to the mountain. It’s pretty much the same as always- in a dreadful, monotonous way. 

You’d think that years of loyalty would earn him something, but all he gets are the same grunts and grumbles, the same lack of appreciation. The same songs- well written and performed, of course, but the _same_. Nobody seems to notice but him, which would be frustrating if he hadn’t grown used to noticing more things than the company he keeps. 

For the first time in years, he tries leaving Geralt again. One night he stays behind in the inn, steeling himself for nightmares, for the cosmic wrath of Destiny once more, but-

Nothing happens. He has benign dreams, one of Geralt lighting a campfire, one of the lovely barmaid that’ll flirt with him tomorrow. 

It’s strange and it’s even stranger that it brings him more dread than a nightmare would. Because if he’s not being forced to follow Geralt, he’s no longer important, he’s-

Fulfilled his purpose. Brought him to the girl and the witch, done everything Destiny demanded of him. 

And now he’s just going to waste away here, dreaming of barmaids and boring lyrics. 

“Fuck.”

He gets out of bed quicker than he ever has when not under duress, duress that usually came in the form of Geralt threatening to leave him behind. There’s no plan, because not only has he not learned his lesson, but he hasn’t gotten any less stupid, either. He’s going to stick it to Destiny, or something. Be more than the bard that wrote a catchy song- even if something more is just a thorn in the white wolf’s metaphorical paw.

“Can I get you anything, darling?”

The barmaid is everything his dream informed him she would be, but the well-presented breasts are somehow less appealing in person. She’s certainly not talking about food, which is short-sighted, considering Jaskier is primarily concerned with getting his last hot meal before hitting the road of indeterminate length.

“Breakfast, if you could?” He’s still packing the last of his belongings away, bag hanging half open as he sits at an empty table, so he doesn’t notice her pouting until her hand lifts his chin to look up at her.

She bats her eyelashes and not-so-subtly adjusts herself. “Nothing else?”

Jaskier notes her restraint in not making an allusion to a different sort of eating they could be doing, but he’s _really_ busy. Even if this could be his last chance in a while to- no, _focus_.

“Yes, can you point me in the direction of a supply store?”

Her reluctance is probably a bad omen, but Jaskier is nothing if not an expert on ignoring bad omens. It gets him what he wants, what makes life pleasant if only briefly, which is all that’s ever seemed important to him- part of the reason why he’ll never truly understand Geralt’s Path and his sense of duty to a world that doesn’t give a shit about him. A world that he embraces over Jaskier, who’s going to chase after him.

Gods, this is so dumb. At least he’s thought to buy rations, the tasteless ones that Geralt insists are practical. In hindsight, it all could’ve been a long con to get Jaskier to start eating hard chunks of meat and salt- but that’s neither here nor there.

He also buys a winter coat, which is not his style in the slightest, but he’s seen Geralt travelling through snow. He’s going to be prepared, this time, even if Geralt doesn’t notice or care.

Jaskier is accustomed to changing for the people he loves. There’s an overstuffed dream journal weighing down his satchel that proves it. Maybe, if things go bad, he can use it for kindling, as Geralt always threatened to, not knowing its contents.

He shouldn’t be so pessimistic- everything _could_ be normal. Geralt is the walking definition of change-resistant; he could be just as willing to re-accept Jaskier as a constant, alongside the witch. Or replacing the witch, ideally.

It’s just not very encouraging to know that Geralt has never cared to look for him, or to wonder why they’ve drifted apart. Not even bothered to properly send him off, with a goodbye or a get-out-of-my-life.

The fire seems less warm without Geralt, but that’s only because Jaskier has managed to screw it up and is too tired to fix it. There are more important things, like his mind calling him to sleep, to dream.

_Battles are being waged across the Continent. They’re crossing borders, pushing boundaries. Setting fires, crawling closer, closer-_

_Geralt is waking up, mounting Roach, riding towards a new monster._

_Jaskier’s boots break on a rock, worn too thin and in desperate need of replacement._

He doesn’t sleep well. It’s the hard ground’s fault- nothing to do with whispers of war in his ears and rumors that don’t even scratch the surface of the future he could foretell.


	3. Chapter 3

The very first night they spend on the mountain path, Jaskier knows something is going to go terribly wrong. Not because of his dreams, not because of Yennefer’s presence, not even because his life has the tendency to screw him over at every turn, but because he has a bad feeling. It’s silly, but he’s come to rely on those more than his dreams, these days.

The dreams, however, are not particularly helping matters. 

His visions show him Sir Eyck’s unfortunate death, Borch falling, and Geralt and Yennefer’s pleasant night in together. He’s ashamed to say he’s not sure which of those he feels the worst about.

There’s enough misery to go around that he thinks that’s the end of it, he’ll wake up and face the shitty day, but the nothingness of subconscious is replaced again with vivid color—

_It’s grey, everything is grey and moving very fast. The mountain side is rushing past him, the narrow bridge getting farther away with each passing second. He’s not_ really _here, it’s just his mind’s eye following Borch, who’s-_

_Smiling. Tea and Vea grab his arms, not smiling but not quite frowning either._

_A flash of movement and color that even his dream doesn’t catch, then Borch is all gold scales and massive wings that catch wind, pulling him out of his freefall. He feels the wind on skin as if he were flying alongside him, and Jaskier soars until everything fades to black_.

So, there is _some_ good news, though it feels like a consolation prize. He’s learned to look every gift horse in the mouth, because they more often than not are sporting rotting teeth and gum disease that spreads and takes the entire ranch out of business.

Gods, he’s more tired than he thought if he’s using horse metaphors.

There’s something worse coming, he just _knows_ it. If he could get out ahead of the visions, do _something_ —

He can’t change things, he knows that. He’s tested it enough times to know that when Destiny wants something, she gets it. Even his meddling is part of her plan, part of the guide she’s provided in his dreams.

Still. It can’t hurt to _try_ , can it?

It must be something drastic, something he’s never tried before. Something he’s never dared. 

The idea forms and as soon as it’s there, plain to see in his thoughts, it brings a cold wave of dread with it. He considered it as child, struggling with a power he didn’t understand, but it’s always felt forbidden, wrong. Before, it might’ve just been fear of his parents thinking him lunatic but now, it’s more than that. Something doesn’t want him to do this, to tell Geralt. 

That’s enough to convince him it’s what he has to do. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier steps quickly to catch up with him, grasping for his sleeve, “I have to tell you something.”

“Not now, bard.”

“It’s important, please—“

It falls on deaf ears. Geralt is charging ahead, after Yennefer, after the dwarves, after the damn _dragon_. He doesn’t even know one’s right in front of him. 

Jaskier shoots Borch’s back a dirty look, just in time for Borch to glance back with a pleasant, knowing smile. Mystical dragon senses or not, Borch might have figured out something in his two days of knowing Jaskier that Geralt hasn’t in two decades. 

Jaskier lets Borch fall, not that he could’ve done anything, anyway. He’s sad to see him go, but the feeling is dulled by the knowledge that he’s fine, and a sense of impatience to get on with the rest of the day, the important bits.

“Geralt.” He tries again, after. They’re sitting on a rock, Geralt staring off into the middle distance. “I need to tell you something.”

It’s not the right time for this. Not after this day, not before tomorrow’s heretofore unseen shitshow- but it’s the only time left.

“ _What_ could possibly be so important?”

The Yennefer-brand bitterness sharpens his voice, making Jaskier want to flinch away but he _can’t_. 

“I’ve been having dreams,” he ignores Geralt’s groan and dives ahead, unheeded by the cold mass in his chest, “For years. Of the future, I can see- well, I can usually see the next day.”

Jaskier swallows as Geralt freezes. Tense, silent. Gold eyes unblinking, stone face unmoving. 

“I don’t have time for tall tales, Jaskier.”

Geralt stands, heading off towards—

“Yennefer. You’re going to see Yennefer. She’s going to invite you in and you’ll have fantastic sex in that stupid magic tent.” Jaskier succeeds in snatching Geralt’s sleeve and reels himself in, for lack of the strength to pull Geralt closer. “She’ll tell you-“

“Jaskier.” His back is turned, Jaskier can’t see his face, can’t judge his- “Stop.”

“Why? You’re not _listening_ to me.” There’s no response- there never is- and Jaskier drags in a breath, resisting the urge to cry or scream or _stop_ entirely. “You never listen.”

Geralt yanks his arm away, jarring Jaskier’s fingernails that have dug into the fabric. There was a time when Jaskier would complain. There was a time when Geralt wouldn’t have turned his back. There was a time when Geralt would at least _say something_.

It's different now.

Geralt doesn’t return to the campfire that night, but Jaskier waits for him until he falls asleep on a log beside the dimly glowing embers.

…

He doesn’t think he’s going to sleep. It’s not the first time he’s tried to force himself to stay awake so he doesn’t have to dream, but like every time before, he’s dragged under, asleep before he realizes he’s not just blinking.

In recent years, his dreams have been scattered, his attention stretched over the Continent. It’s remained predominantly Geralt, co-starred by Ciri, with brief sightings of Yennefer, unless she’s already lumped in with Geralt; all interwoven with snippets of the extracurricular activities of the Nilfgaardians.

Tonight, he only sees Geralt.

It’s half of a conversation, cut around any of Jaskier’s speaking parts- as if to say that no matter what he says, the outcome will always be the same. A taunt, Destiny’s revenge for his attempts to circumvent this, to change something.

There’s a reason he sees the ending, his fate set in stone. 

He sees Geralt’s back turned, tearing his way down the mountain. It gets further and further until it’s obvious that Jaskier is not going to follow, that he _can’t_ follow—

He wakes with a jolt, to the sound of Geralt’s footsteps. He’s slept in- hasn’t seen the final fight, not even in his dreams- and now, Geralt stomps through the ashes of the fire Jaskier let die, watching Jaskier scramble to his feet.

“Geralt,” he tries for a smile, despite the sick feeling deep in his stomach- closer to the sensation of falling, with Borch, than true nausea- and Geralt’s glare, sharp enough to hurt, “How’d it go?”

“You already know, don’t you?”

His smile falls away, giving up the act. “No, I- I don’t see everything, only pieces-“

“Always fucking excuses with you. Why did you even tell me?” Geralt’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “To rub it in my face? All these years, you’ve been watching me suffer twice, leading me into steaming piles of shit.”

Jaskier should say something, but his feet carry him a step backward first, an animal instinct that he’s ignored for years coming to life again in the back of his head. He’s scared of Geralt, which would usually be ridiculous, but here they are, and Geralt takes another step forward to point an accusing finger in his face.

“You could’ve stopped it, you knew and you could’ve-“

Jaskier straightens, trying to look Geralt in the eyes, trying to get him to hear him, to understand. “I couldn’t, I _tried_ -“

“You brought me to Cintra,” Geralt doesn’t shout, doesn’t need to as his voice shakes with anger, “And Rinde. You knew.”

“No, _no_ , I-“

“Tell me, how much longer does Destiny see fit to sidle me with you?” Geralt steps away, slinging a bag over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll be able to brace myself, this time.”

“She’s doesn’t.”

Geralt, who was looking towards the path, snaps back to Jaskier, brows furrowing. “What?”

“You’re going to leave me here. I won’t follow you.”

Jaskier sits back down on the log, heavily. He can’t look at Geralt as he pauses for what feels like an eternity. Some small part of him hopes, wishes, that did the trick, that he convinced him to stay in some unintentional reverse psychology.

“Thank the gods for small fucking blessings.”

He doesn’t watch Geralt leave. He doesn’t need to- he’s already been treated to that particular vision.

The dwarves come and go. Yennefer doesn’t show her face. Borch is likely flying off into the sunset.

Jaskier stays until the light gets dim enough that he couldn’t leave the stripped campsite even if he wanted to. His lute is the only company he has left- which is just as well.

He has a song to finish, and all the time in the world to perfect it for the man who’s never going to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that marks the last of the mostly canon-compliant content. Bit of angst, but we'll see if the boys get through it (hint: they absolutely do). 
> 
> Shorter chapter today, but the next two will be much longer. Stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

The next year passes Jaskier more calmly than it should. His dreams keep him one step away from the war, always helping him pick peaceful- or, at least, not actively burning- towns to rest in. It’s the least Destiny could do for him, at this point. 

Occasionally, he sees Geralt and his apocalyptically powerful surprise child. Less often, he gets glimpses of Yennefer, far away from Geralt for as long as she can help it. He watched her battle at Sodden from his bed, held hostage by visions of fire, so much fire.

The dreams of Kaer Morhen are equally frustrating. Snowy mountains and cold hallways, all out of reach. Every night he drifts closer, embracing the chill that has him shivering in his bed, beneath layers blankets, when he wakes up. 

Geralt never makes it to the fortress, forced to turn around as he runs into the search parties Jaskier tracks. Jaskier’s surprised to see Yennefer join Geralt, voluntarily, a few times- either they’ve made up, or she’s helping with Ciri. He doesn’t always remember details of their conversations when he wakes, more concerned with memorizing safe routes out of town.

Eventually- inevitably- his dreams, and some cruel joke of Destiny, land him in the same tavern as Geralt. He almost brings himself to leave before Geralt arrives, but just as he gets out of bed to pack, the image of bloodstained steel impresses itself onto his eyelids hard enough to _burn_. He finds himself, an hour later, on the floor with his head in his hands and the sun rising through his window, too late to make an escape.

The tavern floor is empty. He doesn’t bother with a performance- even if it wasn’t practically a ghost town, everyone here is either actively in mourning or preparing to be. In fact, he takes up the darkest corner, pressing himself in so that anyone who approaches won’t see him until it’s too late. 

The look of surprise on Geralt’s face is _almost_ worth it. The sight of him immediately turning away is not. 

“ _Wait_ , you bastard.” He doesn’t bother reaching for him, this time, trying to maintain his dignity. Geralt stops anyway. “You leave now, you’ll miss Yennefer’s arrival in an hour.”

He’s not bluffing. The dreams have gotten more specific, in their time apart. He assumes it has something to do with regular sleep and real beds- although, that certainly hasn’t helped the lingering threat of exhaustion that hangs over his head at all times.

Geralt growls like a caged animal and stares down at Jaskier. Jaskier stares back, knowing Geralt won’t do anything. He’s sure of that, but only because he saw himself relatively unharmed at the end of the day, in his dreams.

It's probably sad that his dreams are the only reason he thinks Geralt won’t hurt him, but there have been a lot of sad things lately. Nothing to get hung up on.

Geralt sits. Gets an ale. They wait. 

Jaskier doesn’t drink, just watches. He wants so badly to break the silence but there’s nothing to say. Nothing he hasn’t already.

Though, that hasn’t stopped him before. 

“I really didn’t know.”

Geralt grunts and looks away, towards the exit. They’re essentially trapped in a corner booth, so making a break for it will be inconvenient- the price for privacy in this cramped tavern. Similar circumstances to when they first met- circumstances he exploited, at the time. Just like then, he presses on.

“I just- I couldn’t _do_ anything, just like you couldn’t do anything. You tried to avoid her for so long-“

Geralt’s chair creaks loudly as he pushes it back and Jaskier stands with him. He’s deciding whether he’s going to follow- whether he gives a shit about this, anymore- when there’s a flash of light signaling Yennefer’s arrival, with a kid covered in cloak, presumably Cirilla, by her side. 

Her eyebrows arch dramatically at the sight of Jaskier and her cruel smile twists up further. “Are we interrupting your happy little reunion?”

“Jaskier was just leaving.”

Jaskier glares at Geralt, holding his ground as Geralt glowers back. “Actually, I paid for a room here. So I don’t think I will.” He tilts his head toward the bar and smiles, almost as nasty as Yennefer. “Besides, my drink is about to arrive.”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest and Yennefer’s eyebrows raise somehow further, but they’re both interrupted by the barmaid making her way to their table. 

“Dandelion? These friends of yours?”

She’s staring at Geralt, clearly placing him- _what gave it away, the wildly conspicuous hair?_ \- but Jaskier draws her attention away with a signature wink. And a coin, pressed into her palm as he takes the ale. It’s not enough, but it’s an attempt- for appearances’ sake.

“Yes, darling. Old friends,” he can’t look at Geralt as he says it, so he focuses on her lips and tries to remember her name, “Lucky you don’t kiss and tell, hm?”

She squeezes the coin in her hand and smiles at him, dazzling, fake. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight?”

“As promised.”

Yennefer fills the space that the barmaid vacates, closing in on Jaskier and crowding him up against the wall. She doesn’t need a knife to be intimidating- her eyes shine with a much more dangerous threat.

The last time she threatened him, he was terrified, knowing what she’s capable of and having seen her fight from afar. Now, he’s tired, too tired to care about anything outside of getting away and into the next safe town he can find- repeating the pattern until there’s no safety left. He knows that he lives to see the rest of the night, which robs the moment of any real suspense.

“Will she be a _problem_?”

“Yes,” Jaskier meets her eyes, and feels her back up an inch in surprise at his answer, “and you won’t be able to stop her before she sells you out to the wrong people.”

Geralt curses from his sentinel position just beyond Yennefer’s shoulder, looking behind him at the empty tavern and taking hold of Ciri, so he’s a wall between her and the world.

Yennefer leans in closer and her hand that grasps Jaskier’s shoulder heats up. Her nails are like spikes of metal fresh from a forge and Jaskier bites back a gasp, trying not to make a scene, with the barmaid still listening. 

“Why not?”

“The same reason you and I are being tugged along Geralt’s little trail of misfortune.”

“ _Destiny_?” she hisses, “You’re really going to blame this on Destiny?”

His shoulder is released and he shrugs, though it brings a sting of pain. “I tried to tell him, before.”

Geralt pulls the girl a little closer. The hood is low over her face, but it’s not enough- everyone is looking for the missing princess, Nilfgaard’s lost prize. Yennefer brings up a hand, to stop him from doing anything stupid, and Geralt heels like a trained dog- Jaskier wishes he learned how to do that, but all he ever got to see was the wolf. 

“Assuming you’re correct,” Yennefer’s outstretched hand twitches again at Geralt’s grumble, “how much time do we have?”

Jaskier shoots a glance at the bar. It’s empty, but he knows the walls are thin. He wonders if it even matters, if anything between now and tonight will make a difference. 

“Till last light, I think-“

“You _think_?” Geralt steps forward, away from Ciri, and Yennefer switches with him, taking her. “What happened to knowing everything?”

“I never said I-“ Jaskier huffs and stops, knowing a losing battle when he sees one. It usually looks like Geralt. “Just get out of here, up the north trail. You’ll be safe and you won’t have to see me again.”

Yennefer laughs, like nails on a chalkboard. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “You’re not going anywhere, little bard.”

He frowns and tries to step away, but Geralt follows him, not letting him clear the booth and their increasingly crowded corner.

“I’m not coming with you.”

“Destiny tell you that?” Yennefer’s smile is sharp enough to tear, a hawk’s talons poised to strike or a wolf’s teeth bared in the face of prey. 

Specifically, he saw himself sleeping on a bedroll, in the denser woods far outside of town. He hadn’t seen the rest of the campsite, not enough to know whether he was alone, but he didn’t think he would have to consider that.

“Yes,” Jaskier answers automatically, before he thinks better of it, “she did, in fact.”

Geralt snorts and shakes his head at Yennefer. Can probably smell the lie- half-truth - the bastard. 

“We’ll see about that then, hm?”

...

Their first night together is a miserable one, but this far north, almost every night is miserable. 

It’s worse when you’re walking with the man who broke your heart, the scary sorceress he’s fucking, and the orphaned princess he’s adopted. 

Ciri is sweet, but Jaskier doesn’t hear much from her. He gets the impression that Geralt isn’t letting her talk to him- which is fine. Jaskier has gotten used to walking in silence, in the last year.

They only stop when Ciri gets tired, taking more time than they used to finding a nice clearing. Nicer than any Geralt would bother with when he traveled with Jaskier, but Jaskier tries not to be bitter, for Ciri’s sake.

It’s not all bad. He’s under no obligation to help with camp, seeing as he’s got his own supplies and can’t be expected to help out when he’s essentially being taken hostage by Geralt. It’s a funny twist of fate in of itself; he never thought he’d see the day that Geralt would insist on Jaskier following him. 

Nobody makes an effort to question or, and this is a novel idea, _talk_ to him so he turns in early. He closes his eyes, sleeps, and regrets it almost immediately. 

_Another fire. After the first few dreams, he swore he’d never get used to the feeling of flames on his skin and the sound of a town full of people screaming, choking on smoke and tears. A year later, the heat is familiar and the dulled sensations he borrows from the futures of strangers is only unpleasant._

_“Where are they?” A man dressed in Nilfgaardian armor- all black spikes and sharp corners- grabs a running woman by the arm. “Where did they go?”_

_She just cries. He leaves her to the flames._

_His view widens, showing him the spreading fire in detail. Before he’d gotten practiced in this, his eyes would’ve lingered on the dead and dying, but now, he concentrates on the army, their size and position—_

Yennefer is leaning over him when he wakes, her hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He twists away instinctively and stumbles out of his bedroll, backing up blindly into a tree. 

Visions are mixing with the present, creating a spinning mess of color and sensation. They’re angry at being interrupted and his head _hurts_. 

Yennefer’s eyes cut through the haze, breaking up the fire that threatens to burn him alive. 

“Jaskier,” she demands, grabbing his shoulder- the same shoulder as yesterday, ouch- and holding him up against the tree, “what did you see?”

Jaskier slips out of her grasp, sliding down the tree. He closes his eyes and holds on, using the tricks he’s learned to file the memories away, stitch together the full story from the quickly escaping threads.

“Get my journal,” he doesn’t hear her move, so he adds a hissed, “ _hurry_.”

After a pause, a pen is pressed into his right hand and his journal into his left. Flipping to a random page, disregarding organization in his hurry, he starts to write. He doesn’t even open his eyes, just lets his hands fly across the page, get out every word until they’re cramping and shaking. 

“Holy shit.”

Jaskier lets his eyes open halfway, tracking Yennefer as she takes his notebook. He’s preoccupied with flexing his fingers to get feeling back, but he allows a bit of satisfaction at the awe he hears. There’re numbers on that page- exact times, headcounts, casualties. Names he overheard, battles he saw. 

It’s impressive. Better than the vague bullshit he got as a kid with dreams of music, or even the stuff he used to help Geralt, what feels like ages ago. 

Yennefer crouches down, pushing his notebook in his face. “How long have you been able to do this?”

Jaskier leans away and groans, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes and cramps out of his hands. He sees Geralt staring at them, beside Ciri, looking equally owlish. Like father, like daughter- in spite of the lack of blood. 

“I tried to tell him,” he gestures halfheartedly and shakes his head, “I’ve always had them. They’re just... worse, now.”

“ _Worse_?”

He shoots Geralt a glare. “Watching cities be burned to the ground in vivid detail isn’t my idea of a pleasant night’s sleep.”

Yennefer ignores both of them, pouring through the journal and holding it up to the light as if it’ll reveal a secret. “This is not just _your_ future? You see multiple places, at once?”

Jaskier nods, eager to turn away from Geralt. It’s a testament to how fucked up everything has become that he’d rather talk to Yennefer. “The only restriction is the day. It has to be today.”

Geralt stands, always down to business, adhering to some schedule nobody but him is privy to. “We should go.” He grabs their bags, securing them to Roach, and pulls Ciri along, but she doesn’t move, digging in her heels. 

“Shouldn’t we help them? The city, that Jaskier saw.”

Geralt scowls at him- blaming him, again, as if he’s the one leading Nilfgaard on a rampage across the Continent- but Jaskier brushes him off, kneeling down to look Ciri in the eyes. 

“It doesn’t work like that, Princess. I’ve tried, before.” He deliberately does not look at Geralt- this isn’t about him, anymore. “Nothing changes. Best we can do is get ahead of it.”

Ciri’s eyes turn fierce, more fiery than even Geralt’s. “But we have to _try_.”

“No,” Geralt’s hand settles on her shoulder and squeezes, lightly, “you could get hurt.”

“I won’t! Jaskier would’ve seen, if I did.”

“Ah, but I didn’t see you _safe_ either. I don’t know, precisely, what happens to you today.”

Ciri’s face falls and Geralt gives him a glare that would’ve caused a lesser man to drop dead. Jaskier scoots closer, as close to Ciri as he dares.

“We’re going to keep you safe, alright? You’ve got two of the most powerful people on the Continent in your pocket.”

She looks up at him, and her eyes seem to stare through him, straight into his mind, his soul. “And a seer to guide us. Right?”

“Well, I’m not exactly a _seer_ , but,” he smiles, strained but as convincing as he can manage right now, “I’ll help. We’ve got to keep going, all of us, for the people we _can_ save.”

“You’ll tell me?” She doesn’t sound like she’s asking. “If there’s someone we could save?”

He swallows and puts on a performer’s face. He’s rusty- hasn’t performed any hits, recently, with the current reputation of the White Wolf- but the reassuring smile comes easily. Instinct, built up over very many years of lying and charming.

“Of course.”

…

Jaskier finds himself growing more and more tired the longer they travel. He no longer gets a true night’s rest- he tosses and turns so much that he wakes out of his bedroll, already curled around his notebook and scrawling illegibly. 

On the fifth day, they spend the morning making a circuitous route around a town that’ll burn tonight. Jaskier has been giving Ciri gradually less and less details about his dreams and she resents him for it, alternating between scowling at him and pouting silently as she rides Roach. Geralt and Yennefer ignore him in equal measures, arguing lightly over his notebook, low enough that the girl can’t make them out. 

It stands to reason, then, that nobody notices when Jaskier trips and falls- not at first. He’s so tired he just lays there for a minute, listening to the sound of horses getting further away, until they’re not getting farther away, until they’re close again. 

He looks up, sees Yennefer, and wonders how long he’s been laying here, getting dust on his clothes. He’s not sure what she sees when she looks at him- pale, dark shadows under his eyes, gaunt- but she holds out a hand and he takes it. 

They don’t mention it, not directly, but Yennefer pulls the horses to a stop early in the evening, at the bare minimum distance from civilization, announcing, “I’m tired. We’ll stop here.”

She doesn’t _look_ tired; though, Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen her tired- except after Sodden, which is so far from ordinary tiredness that it shouldn’t count.

He’s more worried about his own exhaustion, collapsing against a tree before Yennefer even gets off her horse. He tries not to close his eyes; sleep, ironically, will do more harm than help. It feels like he’s burning through the last of his reserves, and he doesn’t know what’ll happen when he falls asleep with no energy left to give to his dreams.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to do anything.

Geralt’s gotten a low fire going and is arguing with Yennefer- again. It seems like all they do is argue, and Jaskier isn’t interested in straining his ears to listen, but he does catch Yennefer throwing her hands up and leaving the clearing, taking Ciri with her.

Not even trying to keep up the tired act- an amateur move. If she’s not careful, Jaskier will start to think she cares- and then where will they be? Then again, she’s left him alone with Geralt, so she’s not doing him many favors at the moment.

Geralt shifts and Jaskier- because he hasn’t learned his damn lesson- looks up immediately, freezing in place as if that’ll make it easier for Geralt to approach. Always trying not to spook the white wolf, lest he run away down a mountain with his tail between his legs.

He's staring at Jaskier over the fire but not saying anything. He doesn’t look antagonistic, at the very least, which is such a low bar they might as well bury it.

Jaskier knows what he’s good at. He’s good at breaking silences, rebuilding bridges, coming back even when he’s been kicked to the ground. He’s meant to be the one to start, the one to help Geralt out but-

He can’t. He doesn’t know what to say- can’t even find the wrong thing to say, for the first time in his life. He just stares back and feels sad, which is all he ever really does now, in between dreams.

Geralt clears his throat. Adds wood to the fire. Shifts in place. Looks at Jaskier, looks away, looks back. Clears his throat again.

It’s painful, in so many ways. Jaskier would love to look away, but he’s stuck in place, waiting for Geralt.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, finally, but he literally chokes on the words, coughing halfway through. He tries again, and his voice cracks, “I’m- I’m sorry.”

Jaskier laughs because he can’t help himself and Geralt glares, but it doesn’t have any heat. He’s trying not to laugh, too, and it’s a familiar expression, with just a bit more beard and darker eye bags.

They fall into familiar silence, although it’s not as tense as it’s been. Still, Jaskier feels a tightness in his shoulders that won’t go away, a bad feeling crawling beneath his skin like an itch. He’s not good at holding his tongue, and he can’t stop himself from saying what he’s been thinking, “I tried my best to stay away. I wanted to leave the morning I saw you in my dreams, I couldn’t.”

“No, I shouldn’t have…” Geralt shakes his head, but it takes a minute for him to come up with something to say. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. I didn’t mean it.”

“I figured.”

“I was angry and Yennefer had just-“ He takes a breath and blows it out dramatically, glaring at the fire to blame it for lack of inspiration. “It was my fault. I was bitter and I didn’t understand. I- I guess I still don’t.”

“Geralt, really, it’s ok.” Jaskier smiles but Geralt doesn’t look reassured. He’s not sure what could _possibly_ be suspect about his constant state of deathly exhaustion; it’s starting to become clear that he’s not as good of a liar as he thinks.

“It’s not,” Geralt says, like it’s simple, like it’s a fact. It probably would be, if they didn’t live in this world that sees fit to make them all suffer, entangled in connected threads that suffocate them. “I’m sorry they’re hurting you. The dreams, I mean.”

“ _Two_ apologies? Do I secretly have a terminal illness? Is that why you’re being so nice?”

Geralt, surprisingly, winces, and pauses for a moment before answering, “No. Kindness shouldn’t be a life or death commodity.”

“Do better, then,” he says, idly, before he realizes what he’s said. In the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt tense, but he doesn’t look up.

“I will.” Geralt gets up, and plants himself beside Jaskier. He puts a hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm. “I _will_ , Jaskier, I swear.”

It’s a nice sentiment. Jaskier wants to believe it, wants to take Geralt’s sincerity for what it is, but his bad feeling has solidified into something bigger and he feels it feeding on his mind like a parasite. It feels like before the mountain. It feels worse.

He looks up and meets Geralt’s eyes, seeing for the first time that he’s gotten him back. He’s back where he wanted to be, at Geralt’s side, and he’s going to lose him again, he just knows it. It was destined to be- witchers don’t retire, don’t get happy endings, don’t fall in love. The same follows for their companions.

There’s nothing he can do to change this. It’d be best to smile back and enjoy what time they have, warmed by the campfire and the apologies and the honest words, but-

Jaskier, as a rule, is stubborn. He’s never accepted a lesson he didn’t believe in, to the irritation of his professors and tutors, and he’s going down with this ship. Whether it ends it flames, or at the bottom of a mountain.

“I tried to change things.” It comes out in a rush, quickly to sneak past the watchful eyes of Destiny just waiting to quiet him. “I thought telling you would do it. I thought we could change things, together.”

“But I wouldn’t listen.”

Jaskier nods, absentminded. It’s not important, that’s not- “Yes, but that’s not what I’m getting at. I’m scared, Geralt. Of the next disaster I can’t avert.”

Geralt is quiet for a long time, staring at the flames. Jaskier follows his eyeline and imagines they’re watching the same tongue of heat flare up, flicker, and die.

“You think it’ll happen soon? This disaster?”

“We’re in a warzone. We’re being _hunted_.” Jaskier laughs, but it’s hoarse, barely an exhale. He looks away from the fire and down at his boots, in bad shape after the week of walking. “And I have a bad feeling.”

Geralt nods, like this is a legitimate, normal assessment of danger. Jaskier’s dreams, Jaskier’s _feelings_ , have become empirical evidence, tantamount to tracks, eyewitness accounts, and academic text. It’s the first time, Jaskier realizes, anybody’s ever shared in his burden of analysis, ever taken him seriously enough to need to.

“We’ll figure it out together. Either we’ll find a way to change it, or we’ll deal with the outcome.” A rare smile crosses Geralt’s face. “Like you used to, when I came back hurt from hunts.”

“You noticed?”

“I put the pieces together in hindsight, but,” Geralt hesitates, embarrassed, which is an absurd look on a witcher, “I always notice you, Jaskier.”

That’s all he’s ever really wanted, isn’t it? All the stages and adoring audiences in the world don’t have anything on being _seen_ by Geralt, being understood.

He nods, hanging onto the promise. Some thread of determination that he thought died with the mountain comes back to life in his chest, like breathing onto a dying fire.

It’s nice. He goes to sleep happier than he has in a year.

But he still has to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys have reunited! Prepare for the next stop on the rollercoaster, y'all, it's not over yet.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning is the worst of them all.

Jaskier wakes up with tears already streaming down his face, a scream stopped in his throat as it constricts around his short gasps. Everything hurts, like _he’s_ died and not—

Ciri is watching him with tears in her eyes, held back by Geralt as Yennefer hovers over him, hands outstretched to help, but they lower in relief when Jaskier sits upright.

“Wasn’t sure if waking you would be worse,” Yennefer says, and turns to Ciri, “See, I told you he’d be fine.”

He certainly doesn’t feel fine, even if he’s breathing and not bleeding or dying. _Dying, dying, dying-_

“Geralt, Yennefer,” he manages, forcing out the sound, shaping syllables into words with some difficulty, “A word?”

Ciri, predictably, kicks up a fuss at not being allowed in on the adult’s conversation. Jaskier is usually the one to soothe her but he _can’t_ today, so he lets Geralt yell at her, lets her trudge away to care for Roach. He can’t watch her go.

“What’s going to happen?” Yennefer asks, softly, and Jaskier just shakes his head, not sure how to _say_ this. She grabs him, then, and demands, “ _What’s going to happen_?”

She knows. Jaskier can feel her in his mind and can see it on her face when she finds what she’s looking for. Her expression freezes again and she turns to Geralt, who looks like he already knows, like he read it off her face, but she whispers it in his ear anyway.

Geralt’s face doesn’t change as he listens, turning into a mask. He barely moves when he speaks, in the same firm, quiet tone he always takes, “We have to change it.”

Jaskier should be embarrassed, as a performer, of the way his voice cracks, going up in pitch, but everything feels so far away, so unreal. “It can’t- it’s _never_ worked before.”

Geralt’s jaw sets, gritting his teeth, audibly. “We have to try.”

“ _Of course_ , but,” Jaskier bites his lip, trying to ground himself, “I couldn’t even help you. Every time I followed you on a hunt, my distraction would _always_ go wrong, and end up causing the problem. This isn’t- this is on a different scale.”

“Maybe with all of us,” Geralt waves a hand, over the three of them, “Maybe the right people need to see your dreams.”

It’s- granted, it’s a possibility Jaskier hadn’t given much thought to. But he’s not inclined to believe it, because the last time he told anyone- well, it didn’t exactly go as planned.

Jaskier turns to Yennefer, both to see what she thinks and to pass off some of this responsibility- he doesn’t even want to have an opinion, on this. She’s staring off into the distance, her eyes unfocused and her mouth twisted in a frown that strays dangerously close to a grimace. 

After a time, all she says is, “We have to try.”

...

The plan is to be as contrary as possible. It doesn’t seem like a difficult task- Jaskier should be an expert, by now- but it’s easier said than done.

“The fire is getting closer,” Yennefer says- unnecessarily, given that the wildfire has all but consumed the horizon. Roach is dancing anxiously, no longer soothed by Geralt. “We’ll be smoked out soon.”

The Nilfgaardians have continued their trail of fires, apparently intending to etch out their name in the scorched land of the Continent. Fire spreads fast in the drier land they’ve ventured towards, sweeping over grass that’s been cleared of snow. And here he’d thought the letup in storms had been a blessing.

Geralt hums and shifts to get a better hold of the reigns. His knuckles are white, clenched tightly enough that Jaskier suspects his nails may do permanent damage. “We can’t leave. Jaskier said we would get caught on the way out.”

“Wonderful, so we can die by _fire_ instead.”

“I don’t think playing chicken with Destiny is going to work.” Ciri coughs into the sleeve of her cloak and looks over the fires. The reflection of orange flame in her eyes makes them almost match Geralt’s. “But what do I know? None of you ever listen to me anymore.”

Smoke is gathering overhead like a thick fog and Roach rears up, almost breaking away from Geralt. It seems she’s made the decision for them.

Another point in Destiny’s favor. Jaskier would keep a tally, if he thought it would matter.

They _did_ prepare for this- figured it wouldn’t be as easy as skipping the first step- but there’s only so much a morning can do. The dagger in his hands feels strange; too heavy for him, to start, and he’s woefully out of practice, if you count what little practice he had to begin with. He understands the basics, has used a weapon a few times, but he’s never done battle, never mind joined a _war_.

He's going to today, because it’s not what he’s supposed to do or what he wants to do. He’d really rather never be elbow deep in blood, but he’ll do it. For Ciri, and Geralt, and even Yennefer. For the Continent, too, but that feels less important, less urgent.

The Nilfgaardians are upon them sooner than he anticipates. Under any other circumstances, they could’ve been called lucky- it’s not really an army, just a sizable search party. Probably only the B-team, but it’s enough. Before they’ve caught up, Geralt pulls Roach to a stop and looks at each of them, getting a final nod before they do this exceptionally stupid, brave thing.

If it’s all really inevitable, it’s best to take a stand. After all, turning tail didn’t work the first time.

Yennefer starts them off, resisting her gut instinct for more fire and upending the earth in a wave, instead. The entire ground shakes, cracks swallow Nilfgaardians whole, and rocks form deadly, sharp obstacles for horses to trip over. It’s shaken off as easily as the fire was, in his dream, and what’s left of the soldiers push forward, but it’s encouraging. That’s one event changed, meaning it’s not exactly the same- there could even be a difference in numbers.

Geralt is tense at his side, doing his best not to rush straight into the fray. They’re all grappling with their instincts today- for better or worse. Ciri, too, is watching and waiting, eyes darting back and forth to judge for the right time, just far enough off from Jaskier’s prediction. She doesn’t know the real stakes, but she’s not stupid, and she knows when to follow Jaskier’s advice.

When the soldiers are close, cut neatly in half by Yennefer’s veritable landslide, everything gets very hazy.

For all he waxes poetic about battles and violence, Jaskier is not a soldier or a warrior- at most, a creative author might generously call him a fighter, in the abstract sense. He thinks he’s only ever had to use a blade against another person once- on which occasion he didn’t do any actual stabbing, just waving and threatening. The battle moves faster than he can keep track of, faster than he can assess whether they’ve made any change at all.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Geralt cutting down men two at a time, and Yennefer using more controlled bursts of magic to pick people off. They’ve both been separated more than they planned, cracks forming between their party and filled with Nilfgaardians- it was bound to happen, even if it was something they sought to avoid. At least Ciri appears to be partially taking shelter behind Geralt, instead of running off into the woods in an effort to unburden him, as she did in Jaskier’s dream.

Jaskier can only focus on the guidelines he created: _Don’t do anything you would normally do. Don’t let anything distract you from Ciri. Don’t leave Ciri’s side._

And with that thought in mind, he wildly swings at the man in front of him, glancing a lucky shot off his raised arm and deflecting, by chance, his blow. He sees the next strike- from someone else, over his left shoulder- coming, or, rather, remembers it and ducks a second before he was able to in his dream. One bruise less than Destiny predicted, though, he doesn’t think his clean record will last for much longer.

Base instinct is to run far, far away from this fight- it is, in fact, what dream Jaskier did at the first opportunity- so he makes an effort to stay in it. He doesn’t take another swing, but he’s faster and more erratic than his opponents are accustomed to, meaning he serves as a distraction of flailing limbs and barely dodged strikes. He’s flying blind for the rest of this fight- it wouldn’t have happened at all, if Destiny had her way.

And she still might, as Jaskier is forced back, lest he lose his guts to the Nilfgaardian’s sword. They’re nearing the tree line now, and it’s impossible to tell whether they’ve delayed it at all, or if it even matters _when_ they get pushed off the road, just that they are. If they can just last a few minutes before-

Ciri screams when someone grabs her, then _screams_.

Jaskier loses his balance in the resulting shockwave, falling against a nearby tree, and the two soldiers around him drop to their knees, hands over their ears. He stumbles backward, recovering a little faster as he knows what to expect, even if it does nothing to ease the pain, head throbbing and ears ringing.

This is the first mistake- or, the first _major_ one. Ciri goes off too soon and is powerless for when she’ll really need it- too untrained to manage another burst of power like that, not before a lucky strike takes her down.

It’ll be hard, but not impossible to turn this around. Or, that’s Jaskier tells himself, as he launches himself at the nearest soldier, who’s getting shakily to his feet.

He honestly couldn’t tell you what he does in the second of adrenaline-fueled panic but the knife comes away bloody and when he takes a step back, the soldier falls. A hand catches the back of collar, yanks him backward, and he spins around to meet another Nilfgaardian with a wild punch. He gets lucky, hitting jaw instead of helmet; it’s enough to earn him a few steps of distance before the ground shakes again.

Distantly, he hears Yennefer shouting, but he can’t make out what she’s saying. Geralt is in his peripheral, steel sword scraping against a black Nilfgaardian blade. He doesn’t know where Ciri is.

Another mistake.

He spends a second too long scanning, trying to figure out where in the script of the dream they’ve ended up, where Ciri is now, where he should be, or where he should be avoiding. His eyes aren’t on the soldier he stepped away from until a blade is coming towards him, and missing him by less than an inch.

This soldier seems different, something the details of his armor, and isn’t as easily distracted as the others, following Jaskier no matter how many times he tries to throw him off. It’s all he can do to keep himself alive- a product, likely, of the Nilfgaardian playing with his food, not particularly invested in killing a bard armed with only a knife and his fraying wits.

There’s a cut off shout as Geralt spots them and Jaskier sees him turn away from his own battle, reaching out to Jaskier. That’s one less person serving as a barrier between the soldiers and Ciri, one less person fighting them off as they find her in the trees, too far from her guards.

He saw this part in his dream. He saw Geralt’s hand, outstretched, and feels the impulse now to go after it, run towards Geralt and let him save him- at the cost of a soldier breaking through, going after Ciri.

He’s long wondered if knowing the future would ever affect it. Past evidence suggests it won’t, but he knows, without a doubt, that he’d never do anything that could bring harm to Ciri, no matter the cost. It was, perhaps, a tactical mistake on Destiny’s part to show him that much.

_She’s gotten overconfident._

He steps away, towards his opponent, who pushes him back, too far from Geralt. He dodges one strike, then another, and when the blade swings toward him a third time, he trips over a tree root and knows he’s too out of breath, too slow-

Two things happen at once.

There’s a crack of thunder, a flash of light, and the air sparks, catching fire. The leaves all around them burst into flame, dissolving instantly into smoke. It’s fast burning, but there’s a _lot_ of fuel. The soldiers- what’s left of them- scream and one of them drops, trying to roll out the flames on the forest floor, which, coincidentally, is _also_ on fire.

The ringing in his ears roars back to full strength, deafening him. It takes a second to recognize that Ciri is screaming again, recovered in the seconds Jaskier bought them, because he can’t hear anything. The giveaway is the sword, just short of his throat, dropping, followed by its wielder. Blood drips down from his helmet and his mouth is open in a scream that holds no power, or sound.

Another hand grabs him by the collar and he struggles against it, but Geralt is stronger than any soldier and drags him along, stumbling over roots and rocks. Jaskier looks back, blinking through the smoke and sparks, and finds Yennefer pulling a pale Ciri into her arms, stepping over the soldier that would’ve killed her.

They’re choking on smoke but Ciri is _breathing_. Destiny has lost her game of chicken and now they only have a wildfire to contend with.

The path forward is uncharted, but Jaskier is confident they can handle it- without a dream, this time.

…

“He’s not magic, he’s just... strange.”

Jaskier glares up at Yennefer from under where her hand rests on his forehead. “I’m not _strange,_ I’m- I’m-“

“Weird? Abnormal? Lunatic?”

“ _Unique_. I was going to say _unique_.”

Yennefer scoffs, removing her hand and turning her attention to the herbs she has strewn about. Herbs she’s wasted finding out nothing that Jaskier didn’t already know.

“That’s not true in the slightest. You’re far from the first person to have gifts of prophecy.”

Geralt steps in, uncrossing his arms and breaking his protective stance over Jaskier’s shoulder. “But you said he isn’t a mage.”

“That might be a first.” Yennefer only affords them a glance. “He has no control over it, almost seems like a mistake. Like he’s eavesdropping on Destiny.”

“So unique, then. One of a kind?” Jaskier elbows Geralt, prompting, “Take my side, Geralt.”

“I said _mistake_ , bard, and I meant mistake.”

Geralt looks between the two of them and hums, contemplative. “A unique mistake.” 

“You can’t just say _both_ to placate us, Geralt-“

“That’s really not better at all-“

Geralt smiles- not the subtle smirk Jaskier is used to, but the full grin, one he only ever uses if nobody is watching, when Jaskier and Yennefer are too busy bickering to catch it. He does catch it, this time, and it gives him enough inspiration for his next ballad- his next _three_ ballads.

The rest of Yennefer’s argument passes him, unimportant, and she sighs when she realizes he isn’t paying attention anymore. “I suppose I’ll just go see what trouble Ciri’s gotten up to. Have fun with your magical mistake, Geralt.”

Geralt pulls Jaskier to the side, off to one of the quiet balconies overseeing Kaer Morhen. They’ve been here for a couple of weeks, and Jaskier still hasn’t gotten used to the beautiful, lonely scenery. It makes for good lyrics, which he has room for in his new song book, replacing his last dream journal that now sits, mostly unused, at the very bottom of his bag.

He settles on a bench beside Geralt and slumps against him, like they used in taverns, drunk off their asses. Except, of course, now they’re stone-cold sober.

The… thing between them is more apparent here, without the distraction of war. Yennefer and Ciri have become a part of this family, no longer sources of conflict, leaving Geralt and Jaskier to be-

Something. They haven’t talked about it- and Jaskier figures he’ll have to be the one to break the silence. He can’t wait another decade. That, or it’ll come to a dramatic head, as many things in his life do. Consequence of entangling his destiny with a witcher’s.

For now, he’s alright with just this- comfortable silence, comfortable proximity, comfortable warmth. Nobody who knows him would characterize him as patient, and he’s here to silently prove them wrong, again and again. Patiently, one might say.

Geralt shifts on the bench, making Jaskier grumble as his makeshift pillow is disturbed. In an instant, Geralt goes still again, freezing in place to let Jaskier readjust. He’s like a statue and the leather armor isn’t very soft, but he puts off heat like a furnace, so Jaskier figures it all evens out.

“What now?” Geralt asks, and clarifies, “You planning on using your powers to save the world again?”

Jaskier snorts and shakes his head, speaking mostly into Geralt’s shoulder, “I think I’ve had enough, actually. Plenty of heroes around me to observe- I’ll definitely have song material without involving myself.”

“How’re the dreams?” Geralt’s voice is low with concern, like it was on the first mornings they spent here, when Jaskier stumbled into the dining hall every day with a headache.

“A little less detailed, I think.” Jaskier isn’t sure if that’s wishful thinking, isn’t even sure if that’s strictly a _good_ thing- yes, less dreams mean less headache and more true sleep, but he’ll never know if he’s missing anything important. “Might just be not as much going on. We’re all in one place, too, so I’m not stretched across the Continent in five different directions.”

“Any Nilfgaardian news?”

“Nothing that Yennefer hasn’t figured out.” Jaskier smiles and sits up to stretch. “Shockingly, a massive organization of highly trained mages has been more help than a bard’s dreams. Even a particularly brilliant bard.”

Geralt nudges him- Jaskier isn’t sure if he’s protesting the self-deprecation or ego-inflation. Maybe both. “But they weren’t enough to save Ciri.”

“No,” Jaskier agrees, and stands to lean on the railing, which gives a good view of Ciri and Yennefer sitting in the courtyard, floating rocks, “It only took a bard, a witcher, a witch, and a very powerful little girl.”

Geralt stands next to him and, after a moment of palpable hesitation, puts his hand over Jaskier’s on the railing. When Jaskier looks up, Geralt is staring down at the courtyard, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes like they’ll turn him to stone. Jaskier smiles, which he knows will be in Geralt’s peripheral, and leans carefully against Geralt’s arm.

“You know,” Jaskier starts, a little uncertain, “I’ll be able to enjoy my dreams, a bit, once they’re not all about immediate threats to our lives.”

Geralt hums, sound tilting up at the edges in question, and looks down at Jaskier, smile in his gold eyes that hasn’t reached his mouth yet.

Jaskier turns his hand so he can take Geralt’s in his, entwining their fingers. “I get to live this moment twice, for example.”

“You’ve seen this, already?”

“Parts of it,” Jaskier answers cryptically, just to hear Geralt groan in protest. “I’m allowed a few secrets. It’s a part of my charm.”

Geralt presses closer, squeezing Jaskier’s hand. “What have you foreseen, oh powerful Seer?”

“I shouldn’t tell you. Now, I know it might not come true if I do.”

Geralt gives into the grin, at last, and his eyes light up with it. “But that might be the only way. You never know what Destiny has planned.”

Truth be told, Jaskier has no idea what’s planned, or not planned, for this part of the day. He’s finding he cares less and less lately- the future, in their capable hands, is uncertain. Though, he’d never tell Geralt that- this is the only leg up he has on him, and he’s going to take advantage of his mystique while it lasts.

That, and the flirty grin that he knows for a fact makes anyone weak at the knees. “I’d rather just find out what _you_ have planned.”

Slowly- both to advertise his intent, and to traverse the height difference- Geralt leans in to kiss him and Jaskier meets him halfway, with the competence of a man who knew this was coming. Geralt will never stop surprising him, even if he can see the future, but Jaskier is skilled in keeping up with him and he’ll never fall behind again.

It might be a nice change of pace to have _Geralt_ be the one chasing. For as long as it takes him to figure out that Jaskier has been _his_ for years.

When they break apart, Jaskier stays close, hands on Geralt’s shoulders and smile against his skin.

“I expect some _very_ pleasant dreams for the next few days, Geralt.”

Geralt hums and pulls him closer, snug against his chest. “I’ll try to impress.”

Below them, in the courtyard, Ciri is forcing Yennefer to pay up, and Yennefer is cursing their inability to keep in it their pants for two more days.

She hates losing bets but she supposes- as with many things in Jaskier’s life- this was inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the most challenging to write and edit. I think it turned out alright, but I guess y'all can let me know. 
> 
> I'm glad I've finally got this done- it's been sitting in my drafts, haunting me, for a while now. Turned out way longer than I expected (honestly, I shouldn't be surprised anymore) but I'm happy with it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading!


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